


even a short blade

by leavesinthestream



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:07:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22743757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leavesinthestream/pseuds/leavesinthestream
Summary: Sera receives a gift long overdue.
Relationships: Lavellan & Sera
Kudos: 5





	even a short blade

...I understand, and I thank you for taking the time to reply. If you receive any further word from your family and friends in Denerim, please let us know. Safe travels and good fortune in your hunt. 

Dareth shiral,

Inquisitor Lavellan

Inquisitor,

With luck this letter reaches you before the Inquisition disbands and you all vanish officially off the map. As usual, I'm trusting Leliana to see it through. I've gotten word back from Denerim. They've found her in the records and many of the hahrens remember her. Little blond kid, right? Scrappy? They say she used to keep food in her pockets and all the alienage cats would follow her around hoping for a bite. There's a letter for her, enclosed, written by the hahrens, added onto by lots of others. Everyone is overjoyed that she's alive and well. Tell her there's an inheritance waiting for her. Something her parents wanted her to have when she was old enough. The hahrens kept it safe just in case. She can come get it or Shianni can have it sent to her. There's a few Red Jennies in Denerim who wanted to pass along their well wishes, too. The rest of the gifts included are from them. 

Walk in peace.

Warden-Commander Tabris

Two years since the Inquisition disbanded, to the day. Sera shakes her head and sticks her tongue out at herself in the mirror. She hates when she gets like this. All sappy and gooey like honey at the bottom of a bottle. Really there's no point in it. What's over is over, and Lavellan promised her that they'd _be in touch_ in that polite elfy way of theirs. 

She misses that grim bastard already. She thought it'd take longer before she went sugary but, dammit, two years and she's cracked. Sometimes she runs a finger over her spare knife, the one she keeps at her back. The one Lavellan gave her. Halla antlers carved on the guard, a leaf on the hilt. Dalish make, they'd told her. The memory of their smile stings, a little- but in a good way. Like the first sip of something strong.

The crate from Denerim is sitting at the other side of the room she's borrowing for the moment, prickly with straw from the merchant who graciously smuggled it in for her. Beggars can't be choosers, blah blah, but Sera hopes the stuff doesn't make her sneeze while she's opening it. Because she _is_ opening it. _Today._ For three days now it's been a staredown. Twice she's gotten close to it, but the seal of the city of Denerim- the stamp of the alienage bann- keeps putting her off. Bad memories. Cold in an alleyway, cold in a grand house. She's past that, though. Or she's trying to get past it. More luck these days than not. 

_Necessary,_ Lavellan had called it. She hadn't known their voice could be that gentle. _Let it hurt. Then you can let it go._

Common sense, that. Elfy or no.

She opens the crate with a prybar she's got laying around from last night's job, gets it creaking up. More straw inside, dammit. But she reaches past the straw, shirt over her nose, and pulls out a long package wrapped carefully in sackcloth, tied in regular intervals with good, thick string. She'll be saving _that_ for later, you had better believe it. Waste not, blah blah blah. 

The sackcloth spreads open gently on the table at the corner of the room by the open window, where a nice breeze is coming in off the bay. Polished wood gleams in the early morning sun, a soft resin glow. The bowstring is loose, but recently put in. Fresh and ready for battle. Sera smiles at that. Someone in that warden's alienage knew what was what with bows. She runs a tentative finger down it, from top to toe, tracing the curl of the wood, the grain. The handle is intricately carved with leaves and stylized knots, and wrapped in leather. Along the inner curve of the bow is a word, painstakingly etched in strong, flowing script.

 _Mien'harel._

She picks it up, half expecting it to bite her or something stupid, but the instant her hand curls around the grip it all feels so right it almost _sings_. Well-crafted, built to last. Made by someone who knew what they were doing. Good for a long, improbable shot if need be, but better for close quarters fighting. A shot around a corner. A shot in the dark. 

The morning wind comes in the window, blowing back the patched curtains, ruffling through her hair. Smelling of the sea. It whispers over the curve of the bow in Sera's hands. Her thumb brushes the word carved within the bow, backwards and forth. She wipes her eyes and tells herself it's the damned straw.


End file.
